


Just a working relationship

by RachelZappia



Category: Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29571375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelZappia/pseuds/RachelZappia
Summary: Very loosely based on the "twenty cups of coffee" scene from the film "All the Presidents men". 1st person from Woodward's point of view.
Relationships: Carl Bernstein/Bob Woodward
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Just a working relationship

**Author's Note:**

> Ha Ha! You guys thought you had gotten rid of me! But here I am again with a new fic that's completely new to me. i recently saw the film "All the presidents men" and absolutely loved it so I thought I'd try my hand at a fic about Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Hope you guys enjoy and as always comments and kudos are GREATLY appreciated!

Just a working relationship

Pairing: Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein

Rating: Explicit

Description: Very loosely based on the “20 cups of coffee” scene from the film “All the president’s men.” First person from Woodward’s point of view.

The only sound in the cramped and cluttered apartment was the scratching of Bernstein’s hands as he rifled in his pockets for the notes on the latest interviewee. You would’ve thought his pockets were bottomless the way he was digging in them, his silky raven black hair dangling in his eyes.

I kept my hands clasped in my lap to stop myself from digging through Bernstein’s pockets in impatience and desperation.

“Got your bicycle in there too?” I quipped.

He ignored me, still digging in his pockets like he was searching for buried treasure. In a way, he sort of was.  
After what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, he came up with two fistfuls of crumpled paper which he laid on the desk like they were the Magna Carta.

“These are your notes?” I asked incredulously.

“It was like pulling teeth to get her to talk” Bernstein replied. “I was scrawling on napkins, toilet tissue, whatever I could get my hands on while I sucked down cold coffee and prayed she wouldn’t kick me out of the house.”

“This is crazy” I muttered as I rifled through the crumpled napkins that were passing for Bernstein’s notes.

“You’d be crazy too if you were operating on twenty cups of coffee” Bernstein muttered as he took his notepad out of his jacket pocket. “I tell you Woodward that girl was paranoid as all hell and she was starting to pass it along to me. I kept staring past her out the living room window thinking that any minute CBS would come crashing in and take our story.”

“Your both paranoid” I muttered. “She’s afraid of John Mitchell and you’re afraid of Walter Cronkite.”

Bernstein made a non-committal noise as he sank onto the sofa across from me, his legs spread, his hair still dangling in his face. I had to resist the urge to walk over to the couch and brush it out of his eyes.

Where in hell did that come from?

It came from sleepless nights chasing faceless people and false leads, forcing people who didn’t want to talk to answer questions no one wanted to hear. What Bernstein and I had was nothing more than a working relationship, a marriage of convenience. Lack of sleep and tight quarters were allowing for thoughts of things that would not happen. That could not happen. That made no sense between a Republican and a radical, a Yale man and a college dropout. 

Bernstein was sitting spread eagle on the sofa, sucking on the last of a cigarette, his lips wrapped around it like it was a lover.

His mouth probably tastes like coffee and cigarette smoke.

I shook my head to chase away the disturbing thought, trying to focus on the typewriter, but I was so tired, so red eyed and distracted that the words I was writing may as well have been written in French.

“What if there’s nothing here?” The question was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Bernstein stamped his cigarette into an ash tray and stared at me. “What you mean the story? Woodward, people know something. Something they’ve been told not to divulge. And whether they were paid off or threatened into silence is not the damn point. The point is this burglary leads to something much bigger, something that’s going to blow Nixon right out of office.”

“What if we’re wrong?” I persisted. “What if we’re missing something?”

“Well I agree that we don’t have the full picture yet. But there’s something here, Woodward. Something we can’t afford to walk away from.”

“Say we do have something” I answered, knowing I was being relentless but unable to stop. “Something big. What happens after the scandal breaks?”

“Nixon resigns or gets impeached, the two of us will get credit for blowing the lid off of what could be the biggest political scandal in history, and-“

“Will we still be friends?” I interrupted, before I could even think about the question, mentally kicking myself for sounding like a hopeful child.

Bernstein’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair line, his dark mocha eyes the size of dinner plates. I could tell he was thinking “but we aren’t friends, we’re barely work partners.” But I figured he would be too diplomatic to say it.

I was right as he cleared his throat and said “I imagine we’ll still get a story or two together, probably see each other around the newsroom every now and again-“

I had stopped listening, was simply watching him as he shook his silky black hair out of his eyes, the locks bouncing effortlessly and grazing his cheeks like a lover’s hand. I was on my feet before I could think, stalking toward the couch like a hunting lion.

Without a word, I grabbed Bernstein’s shoulders and forced him onto his back on the narrow sofa, his hair landing on the cushions, looking like inky black snakes.

“Woodward, what the hell-“

I interrupted him with a fierce, desperate kiss, my hands still digging into his shoulders. He tasted like coffee and cigarettes and I kept up the bruising, hungry kiss until I realized his mouth was slack under mine.

I jumped up as if I’d been shot, thinking of bolting out the door and into the night, away from him, away from my own crazy desire. But before I could move, Bernstein grabbed me by the wrist and started to pull me to the small bedroom.

“Carl-“

He stared up at me without a word, his big mocha eyes soft and doe like, lacking their usual hardness and seriousness. 

Pure instinct and adrenaline kicked in and I threw him onto the bed like a sack of laundry, positioning him underneath me and pinning both his wrists above his head, but not before unbuckling his belt.

“Tell me no” I told him softly. We both knew this would end in sex and I needed to be sure.

He didn’t say a word so I unbuckled my own belt and shoved my trousers and underwear down to my ankles.  
I lowered my shaft to Carl’s mouth, nudging his lips with the head. He opened his mouth and took me almost to the root, his mouth so hot and wet.

“Carl.” I fisted one hand in that silky black hair, pulling ever so slightly.

He took me straight down, staring up at me through his lashes, those big dark brown eyes almost hypnotizing.   
I felt myself start to clench and grabbed Carl gently by his hair, carefully pulling him off of me. 

Confusion and slight hurt shadowed Carl’s eyes and I gently pushed him down onto the mattress. “Lie back” I told him huskily. “We’re not finished yet.”

Carl landed on his back on the bed, his hair once again splayed across the snow white pillow, a stark contrast.  
I held on to both his calves as I lined myself up with his entrance. I was too far gone to be gentle and simply dove in as carefully as need would allow.

Carl tossed his head back, exposing his throat and I buried into his neck and hair, still thrusting.  
I knew I had found his sweet spot when he thrust back up into me mumbling “oh god” and “Bob” like a prayer. We rarely ever called each other by our first names.  
Hearing Carl say my name like that sent me over the edge and I spilled inside him with his name on my lips as I came.

We both collapsed into the now sweat and cum slicked sheets, my hands buried in Carl’s long hair, neither of us saying a word, the scent of sweat, sex, and an unfinished conversation hanging heavy in the air.


End file.
